


Fancy Meeting You Here

by Monna99



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:29:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26574535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monna99/pseuds/Monna99
Summary: Just Brews. Stiles studies the sign, biting at his lip. He hasn’t quite worked up the nerve to head inside -- he hasn’t even decided whether or not heisgoing to head inside -- when a gaggle of women descend.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 5
Kudos: 168





	Fancy Meeting You Here

**Author's Note:**

> Just having a bit of fun. I don't have any real intentions with this story.

_Just Brews_. Stiles studies the sign, biting at his lip. He hasn’t quite worked up the nerve to head inside -- he hasn’t even decided whether or not he _is_ going to head inside -- when a gaggle of women descend. 

“In or out, sonny?” one of them asks, sharply. “You’re in the way.” She looks old enough to be his great-grandmother but there doesn’t seem to be a grandmotherly bone in her body. She taps her foot impatiently and yanks at the door handle, forcing Stiles to jump out of the way. Jesus, is there a two for one on salvation or something? They file in and it’s mostly curiosity that has Stiles following, though he’s not sure he’s ready for what’s to come. 

At first glance, the place could be any number of douchey hipster coffee houses with overpriced sugar water masquerading as coffee. But it becomes obvious fairly quickly that the steel tables, and brick and concrete walls are more about disguising the owner’s nature than drawing clientele. Some of the walls bear the scars of what could be claw marks. 

“Oooooh.” 

The sigh comes from one of the women and Stiles turns to look. He doesn’t know what he expects, but Peter Hale, emerging from what must be the kitchen, wearing a light blue cardigan over a white tee that makes the Mediterranean blue of his eyes pop and holding a tray of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies, is definitely not it. 

Stiles feels strangely torn. His breath hitches as he watches the were laugh when a customer calls out _Come on, Hale, I’ve already gained five pounds!_ and he can’t help stepping forward. The scuff of his shoe on the concrete sounds loud even to his own ears, but Peter doesn’t acknowledge him. Hell, the asshole doesn’t so much as twitch, though there’s no way in fuck he doesn’t know the recent college grad is there. Stiles does not pout about that. Not at all. He grabs a metal chair -- way to make your customers feel welcome -- and scrapes it loudly against the floor as he pulls it out and takes a seat, slinging his backpack down as Peter greets the women. He’s all charm and no teeth and asks for their orders with heavy innuendo while they chitter and blush. 

Stiles snorts as he powers up his laptop. He might as well get some work done. He’s building web-pages for startups and though it doesn’t pay well, he’s getting his name out there which will hopefully help him become gainfully employed. 

After ten minutes of doing nothing but watching Peter wipe down the gleaming counter and relentlessly clicking his pen -- and getting glared at by everyone in the shop -- Stiles breaks. 

He stomps to the register where Peter begins to set the delicious smelling cookies in the display, conscious of unfriendly granny eyes following him. The were takes a cookie and bites into it, groaning in a truly obscene way around the mouthful. Stiles’s throat closes on his complaints and he nearly trips over his own feet. Peter doesn’t glance up until he clears his throat and slaps a ten down. 

“Hmm? Oh! If it isn’t Sheriff Stilinki’s son. How nice to have you back in town. What can I get you?”

 _Seriously?! That’s it?!_ “Seriously!?” he demands, aggravated. “That’s it?! That’s all you have to say?!”

Peter tilts his head in pseudo confusion, looking so falsely concerned that Siltes’s eyes practically bulge out of his head. “What do you mean, Sir? Is there something you want me to say?”

“Sir--you--wha--?” The ladies slide into his peripheral vision, not bothering to eavesdrop discreetly like normal people. 

“Mr. Stilinski, are you having another mental episode? Should I call your father?” Peter asks, loudly enough to be heard by his patrons. Several more turn to stare at him.

 _Dick!_ Stiles fumes. “Is that what you wanna do? Air dirty laundry? All right then. What’s your scheme now? Who else are you planning to disembowel?” The were’s eyes are laughing at him as indignant protests erupt from the peanut gallery. 

Peter blinks at him, his wounded expression leaving Stiles sputtering. “Scheme? What on earth are you talking about? I’m a valuable member of the local business community, young man.”

The ladies nod in agreement, their collective feathers still ruffled.

“Oh, but you’ve been absent a few years. I can’t blame you for the confusion. I guess there was a murderer a few years ago to whom I bore something of a passing resemblance.” Stiles’s mouth drops. “Everyone was so confused at first. Even the sheriff,” he adds, lips pursed mournfully. “But don’t worry, that dreadful man who was passing himself off as me and who avenged my family was killed.” Peter’s eyes flash an unnatural, brilliant blue. “He was burned to a crisp. Not unlike the rest of the Hales.”

Stiles swallows, and his fingers twitch. Peter won’t go nuts in broad daylight in his own coffee shop with a dozen witnesses, right? He backs up a step, though the metal counter between them only gives the illusion of a barrier. “Are you saying you feel sorry for the man who killed your niece?” he asks, though his voice is barely more than a hoarse whisper, throat so dry he’s legitimately considering ordering some coffee.

The were’s eyes narrow and Stiles inclines his head toward the women. _Witnesses, remember?_ Peter grins. “I suppose I’m just that compassionate of a person,” he responds on a sad little exhale. “The thought of anyone dying that way … no matter how awful they are … It’s just so tragic. Isn't it? I could never wish that on anyone.” He goes so far as to clasp a hand above his heart and duck his head as though in grief. 

There’s a muffled sob from somewhere in the cluster of grannies and hot moms. Christ, the asshole’s got the whole town wrapped around his finger. “What the hell did you pour in the water?” he demands, ignoring the outrage in his periphery. 

“Oh, no, Stiles, it’s not the water. Everyone in town loves my coffee.” Stiles backs away as Peter rounds the counter, cookie in hand, and stalks towards him. It’s such a ridiculous image, but Stiles continues trying to put distance between them. It’s pretty useless when the were closes the space at twice the rate that Stiles can create it. All too soon the other man is on him, hand reaching out to clasp Stiles’s shoulder in what no-doubt looks like a companionable clasp. “It turns out if you make something people love enough, they’re willing to overlook just about anything. And you know who else loves my coffee?” he asks, leaning forward to whisper in Stiles’s ear. “Your daddy.” 

Stiles jerks back, hand scrubbing at the now moist spot on his earlobe. “Goddamn it, Peter!”

Peter grins, canines looking a bit long, and squeezes Stiles’s shoulder. It’s nothing like the twenty-four-year-old expects. The were doesn’t try to grind his bones to dust. Those strong fingers know just how much pressure to apply so that Stiles wants to kind of melt into a puddle instead. And maybe he would if those fingers didn’t belong to Peter Hale. He shivers when Peter’s hand travels down his arm, caressing down to his wrist to link their fingers for a breathless beat before his hand drops.

“I can’t believe you’re running a coffee shop like a normal human being,” he mutters when his heartbeat approaches something like normal. Even the words taste strange on his tongue. “Is this some sort of front for a supernatural black market?”

Peter’s head tips back and his lips quirk in a bitter grin. “You don’t remember. Do you?” he asks quietly. His eyes narrow, unhappy, and he tips his head to indicate the far, nearly empty corner of the shop. _Come with me._ Stiles follows him because now that he’s back in Beacon Hills he’s determined to keep tabs on the local unfriendlies. And Peter has traditionally been very unfriendly. 

“Remember?” Had Stiles given him some sage business advice at some point? “Remember what?”

“You said you could never be in a relationship with someone you couldn’t bring home to your father.”

Stiles feels he really gets a pass on his brain short-circuiting right then. The ones and zeros of his processing system glitch and force a reboot and Stiles is left with a blue screen of death behind his eyeballs. “Uhhhhhhhh.” Nope, he’s got nothing. “I don’t … What does that have to do with … What are you …?” No question fits. What is he trying to ask? Should he ask? Does he want to know? Given the way his heart has started hammering behind his ribs, it’s no longer a question of whether he should, now he _needs _to know.__

__Peter stares, patient, as Stiles tries to work through it. The were dismembers and swallows what remains of his cookie nonchalantly and raises an innocent eyebrow. “Are you gonna finish a sentence sometime this hour or should I come back later?”_ _

_Asshole_. Stiles glares and, okay, sure he sputters a little, but it’s definitely warranted. “What does … you … huh?” 

__Peter smirks. “Take a breath. Let your brain catch up to your mouth.”_ _

__Stiles shoves his fist into Peter’s gut, but the man only smirks and curls a hand around Stiles’s nape, making Stiles’s heart jerk in his chest. Jesus, he might develop an arrhythmia at this rate. Still, he doesn’t pull away, telling himself it would be pointless given Peter’s werewolf strength. His breath stalls and he gasps softly as the were draws him closer. “Your fans,” he reminds the other man, forcing the words past a dry mouth, conscious suddenly of the surprised silence in the room under the low crooning notes of Frank Sinatra. The bell over the door jingles a greeting._ _

__“I don’t give a damn about them,” Peter whispers, that too-blue gaze on his lips. “You don’t want it, tell me no.”_ _

__Stiles whimpers a little, but it’s a totally manly whimper of course. He opens his mouth, though he doesn’t know if it’s to speak or to give in._ _

__“No. Absolutely not.”_ _

__The words don’t immediately register until a hand hooks into the neck of his shirt and jerks him backward. “Wh-ugh-agh,” he chokes. He doesn’t get a chance to be indignant. He turns and the angry curse dies on his lips. “Shit! Uh, I mean, hi, Dad.”_ _


End file.
